


Cause and Defect

by Ineffabilitea



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Black Family Tree, Dark, Gen, House Elves, Medical, Purebloods, Squibs, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2006-03-28
Updated: 2006-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-09 00:04:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ineffabilitea/pseuds/Ineffabilitea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sad life of Marius Black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violetta Black gets some unwelcome news.

Violetta Black, _née_ Bulstrode, regarded her reflection critically, ignoring the mirror's customary insipid compliments. "Yes, I think the teal does nicely, Jammy," she told the house-elf who did her _toilette_.

"Mistress is looking lovely!" Jammy enthused. Violetta paid her slightly more heed than she did the mirror; Jammy could be trusted in such matters, or she wouldn't have kept her position long.

In some ways, she mused, still contemplating her image, her father-in-law's death three years ago had been a real boon to her; Ursula now could wear nothing but mourning colours, and Violetta intended to take full advantage of that at this afternoon's party.

"Is Mistress wanting Jammy to be doing her hair the way she always is liking best?"

"Of course!" Violetta caught herself snapping before she could remind herself that a house-elf could hardly be expected to understand how important this occasion was to her. She sat down so that Jammy could reach her hair more easily from the stool she was perched on. "I must look my best for the party, after all."

"Parties is always so exciting, Mistress," Jammy babbled as she began combing out Violetta's hair. "Young Master Marius, and all the young family, they is being so excited, ever since they is waking up this morning!"

The children. They would be looking forward to the party as well, if for different reasons. Pollux would see his betrothed, Irma, there (such a suitable girl, in every way), and Cassiopeia would be eager to meet up with her girlfriends and catch up with all the summer gossip, Violetta supposed. And Marius: she had a hard time picturing the serious, reserved boy eager for anything, but it was his party as much as anyone's, after all. Dorea was too young to attend herself, but perhaps she was simply excited by the others' excitement.

Violetta loved all four of her children very much, if rather distractedly. Her mother-in-law did not entirely approve of even this absentminded affection, as it seemed to imply a tendency towards indulgence of the uncivilised brats that simply would not do. It was one of many things Ursula did not approve of, when it came to Violetta. For her own part, Violetta believed that their father already provided all the strictness that children could desire, with his extreme formality and weekly lectures on the duties, honours and privileges befitting a Black.

Not that Violetta wasn't terribly proud to have married into the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, of course; she only supposed that there was no point in belabouring the issue. All these tapestries and silver services emblazoned with the family crest and painfully repetitive lectures on heritage seemed rather excessive. In another family, they might have suggested discomfort with a too-recent _nouveau riche_ past; not so with the Blacks (see Most Ancient), so Violetta supposed it was merely an odd family hobby, passed down from father to son, like Jarvey hunting.

It was her younger son, Marius, who seemed the most likely to continue these family traditions. Not that her oldest boy, Pollux, was in any way unacceptable as an heir; certainly not. But young Marius was the spitting image of his father, Cygnus, down to the watery grey eyes, thin lips, and mousy brown hair, and he took after his father in personality, as well: like Cygnus, Marius was ferociously proud of the _idea_ of his family, if not always its actual members, who were frequently a disappointment; he had memorised his father's lectures, and took great joy in repeating them to his younger sister whenever he felt she was not behaving like a Black, generally by displaying bad table manners. In point of fact, he was rather insufferable. But very like his father.

And today he was due to get his Hogwarts letter. He would be the first of the cousins not to have his letter hand-delivered by the Headmaster, now that grandfather Phineas was dead and that fool Dippet installed in his place. For a while there had been a question as to whether the rest of the children would be receiving _Hogwarts_ letters at all; even beyond the insult of a mongrel like Dippet becoming Headmaster, there was some other scandal Violetta had never been fully let in on, that had for some time raised the question of sending all the Blacks to Durmstrang. But in the end, Cygnus' brother Sirius had prevailed in his insistence that the leading wizarding family of the British Isles could not desert to the continent, but must stay to be an example for others.

Once again Violetta glanced out the window of their London townhouse; she hoped the Hogwarts owl would arrive soon. Ursula despised lateness; even if the party she was hosting this afternoon was in honour of the newest crop of impeccably Pureblooded children receiving their Hogwarts letters, waiting for one to arrive would never do as an excuse for her least favourite daughter-in-law.

Least favourite, because married to the favourite son; Violetta had learned of that paradox rather too late, and now found herself battling for her place in the family in every encounter with Ursula. Having produced four grandchildren, and two boys, had been a coup; poor Lysandra had only girls, and was generally sadly neglected at family gatherings.

"Jammy is finished with your hair, Mistress." The house-elf, knowing from experience that she was not wanted any longer, scurried off to attend to her other duties.

"Mother!" Marius called from the downstairs sitting room. "There's an owl at the window."

When Violetta entered, she found Pollux sprawled on a sofa, wrinkling his good dress robes. Cassiopeia was nowhere to be seen, presumably still preparing for the party, and Marius was pacing to and fro in a quite uncharacteristic manner, while little Dorea was playing with her dolls on the floor by Pollux, oblivious to the rest of them.

"What have I told you, Marius, about shouting in the house? You should have sent a house-elf to fetch me; it's why we have them, after all."

"Yes, Mother." Marius seemed quite contrite, and Violetta supposed she shouldn't be too harsh on him; one didn't get one's Hogwarts letter everyday, after all.

"Let the owl in for me, will you?" she asked. The owl flew straight in upon Marius' opening the window and dropped two letters with the Hogwarts crest in her hands.

Two letters. Violetta checked; one was addressed to Pollux, one to Cassiopeia.

"Are those our Hogwarts letters, Mother?" Pollux asked.

Violetta did not reply. "I need to talk to your father," she said, already on her way out the door of the sitting room.

When she arrived at Cygnus' study, still clutching the two letters, she straightened her robes and smoothed her hair before knocking carefully, neither too loudly (presumptuous) nor too softly (timid).

"What is it?" her husband asked as he opened the door. "I told you I didn't wish to be disturbed before the party."

"Marius didn't get a Hogwarts letter," Violetta blurted without preamble.

Her husband's look of mild annoyance at the interruption was immediately replaced by one of dismay. "I'll Floo Dippet," he said, snatching the two letters from her hands and shutting the door of the study behind him.

"Why didn't I get a Hogwarts letter, Mother?" Violetta whirled around to find that Marius had followed her to the study. The reserved boy she was used to seeing at meals bore little resemblance to the fidgety child before her now, twisting his dress robes, looking disappointed and bewildered.

"Marius Aquila Black! You should know better than to eavesdrop on adults by now. Go to your room and wait to be summoned." Marius immediately moved to obey her; he looked so stricken as he walked away that she added, more kindly, "I'm sure it's just an oversight. You know how abominably your grandmother says that new man runs the school."

As soon as Marius was out of sight, though, Violetta retreated to her own sitting room to ponder a question she had never before thought to ask herself: had her son ever once shown signs of magic? How could she have failed to notice something so important? She supposed she had just assumed…he was a Black, after all. And the children spent so much time with the house-elves…. She resolved to question Taffy, the chief house-elf, immediately about little Dorea's doings.

About half an hour later, just when she was considering returning to the study to see if there was any further word on what was hopefully a horrible mistake, her mother-in-law swept into the sitting room, trailed by Cygnus. This was not a good sign.

"So? Where is the Squib, Violetta?" Ursula asked, glancing about the room as though expecting to see something far more unpleasant than her youngest grandson lurking in the corners.

"_Marius_," Violetta replied, "is in his room. Why do you wish to see him?"

"I wish to question the Squib and test him for glamours and other befuddling magic. Cygnus, go find him." Ursula's manner was imperious, and the threat in her voice went far beyond a hint. "I find it very odd, Violetta, that you could raise the boy for eleven years and yet fail to notice that he is completely useless. In fact, I find it so unlikely that I am forced to consider the possibility that you knew all along and having been hiding it from my son and I."

Violetta wanted to point out that it was Ursula herself who, only last week, had made a point of praising Marius for being such a well-behaved young gentleman, who never troubled his elders with disruptive, uncontrolled magical outbursts. Ever since _the incident_ when she had taken away Lycoris' favourite toy, Ursula had looked very severely on childish magical fits.

"Glamours? Are you implying that I – that Marius is-? How dare you!"

"Well, it's certainly not the Black blood that's at fault here, dear. I've always found it remarkable, how much that boy looks like his father. Perhaps a little too much like, it seems."

"Well I never!"

"We shall see." Ursula said no more, and Violetta fell silent, fuming inside at the insult. She could have anticipated that Ursula and Cygnus would imply the Bulstrode blood was at fault, but to come right out and practically accuse her of having dallied with a Mudblood or perhaps even an outright Muggle!

Just then Cygnus returned, Marius trailing behind him.

"Father, what's going on? Grandmama? Is it about my Hogwarts letter?" Marius moved towards his grandmother so she could give him her usual peck on the cheek.

Ursula drew her wand. "Stand perfectly still, Squib," she ordered.

"What did you call me?" Marius asked. He sounded fearful, but not surprised. Well, the child would know better than she or even the house-elves whether he had ever performed magic. In fact, if she was to be faulted for not having noticed in eleven years of raising the boy, how could he have lived those eleven years in ignorance? She hadn't thought Marius particularly stupid before, but perhaps he was. Squibs generally were, weren't they?

"I said, stand still, _Squib_!" Ursula repeated impatiently.

"But I'm a Black! How can I be-" Or perhaps ten years of indoctrination into the Black family hadn't encouraged him to question his own merit.

Marius had advanced another pace towards his grandmother as he asked this last question. "_Petrificus Totalus_!" Ursula snapped. Marius froze, though his eyes continued to dart wildly about, pleading silently. "That's better."

Violetta watched as Ursula slowly circled his unmoving body, casting a wide variety of spells to reveal illusions, from _Finite Incantatem_ to _Vervisio_. Finally she seemed satisfied that there was no enchantment in place. Violetta felt vindicated.

It was not a long-lived feeling. "And the Bulstrodes are such a well-regarded family. So sorry, my dear," Ursula commiserated as she sat down.

"What are we to do with him, Mother?" Cygnus asked.

"Before I Flooed over, I made inquiries on your behalf with Imogene Rosier; she had a similar problem with a granddaughter of hers, though it was kept very quiet. Of course they couldn't keep the girl about the house, and Muggle schooling was quite out of the question; so they sent her to this new school started by a man named Tattersall-"

"Excuse me, Ursula. I'm sorry to interrupt, but have you any intention of releasing my son from that Body-Bind Curse?"

"Violetta. I've always said you spoil the children, haven't I, Cygnus? And now I see I was right to be worried. The Squib is perfectly fine as he is."

Cygnus spoke up for the first time. "Really, my dear, you must learn to detach your affections from the boy. After all, unless this experimental treatment Mother was about to describe works, we must disown him."

"Experimental treatment?"

"As I was saying, this man Tattersall – a Mudblood, but never mind that – claims to have developed treatments that can cure Squibs. He has a school in Gloucestershire; we can Portkey the Squib there immediately. He will remain there over the summers and holidays as well, until his cure has been effected or he turns 17."

"Must he leave so soon?" Violetta asked, but she already lacked the resolve to resist their proposals; after all, there was certainly a lot of truth in what they said, and she ought to feel lucky to have any hope of curing her son, even if it meant sending him away.

"Really, it's for the best, my dear," Cygnus told her. "Even with these treatments, the hope for a cure is very slight. You must inure yourself to losing a son, and that will be much easier done if he is away. Out of sight, out of mind, after all."

Some part of Violetta still wished to protest at this callous treatment of her son, who was, after all, still the same boy he was an hour ago, before all of this had happened. But years of battling with Ursula had taught her that when Cygnus agreed with his mother, a compromise was the best she could hope for. And really, what did she want to do with the boy if she won? She couldn't very well look after a Squib for the rest of her life, or turn him out on the street.

"Very well," she said. "Have Taffy pack his things."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton Tattersall welcomes a new student.

Hamilton Tattersall hadn't stopped grinning since the new boy's file had appeared on his desk. He supposed some people would consider it a bad thing to be so vindictive. He didn't think those people had attended Hogwarts under Phineas Nigellus Black.

Or perhaps they had, and they were pure-bloods, immune to the taunting that went on in the corridors, in the common rooms, in the Great Hall, even in the classrooms, right under the noses of the professors, who were either in on it or such great lumps they couldn't see it or stop it.

He'd like to see a nancing pure-blood like Rosier or Yaxley take all the hexes he had, that first year at Hogwarts. That was before he had wised up and started learning all the things the professors wouldn't cover, all the counter-curses and jinxes of his own invention that had earned him a reputation as the nastiest young wizard at Hogwarts.

He hadn't minded; unlike the taunts of Mudblood, that was earned.

But now he knew. He knew how pure-bloods broke: the same as anyone, when you didn't treat them like the sun shone out of their arses, the way that bastard of a Headmaster Black had. Well, pure-bloods without magic, anyway- Squibs.

He remembered when he had first learnt there was someone even more worthy of contempt in their eyes than him; he'd stumbled upon two Slytherin fifth-year boys tormenting a first-year girl, also a Slytherin, levitating her schoolbooks over her head. 'Can't get them down?' they'd taunted. 'What are you, a Squib?'

He'd taken this new word to the library and discovered the secret shame of the wizarding world: the occasional child born without magic, putting the lie to all claims of the superiority of 'pure' blood. The more he'd read - or tried to read - on the topic, the clearer it became that these Squibs were of interest to no one: rejected by their families, ignored by the Ministry, left to fend for themselves at the edges of a world they'd been born into but had no part in, or to live in a Muggle world they didn't comprehend.

A kinder person might have pitied them. But Hamilton had had all the kindness hexed out of him by then, so what he saw was an opportunity.

And so he found himself, twelve years out of Hogwarts, making a living off the humiliation of the best wizarding families. They came to him, a Muggle-born, and asked for his help with the disappointing children they lied about to their friends. They paid him well for the privilege of foisting their useless progeny off on him, and they went home and comforted themselves with the rumoured cures he'd never actually achieved. If they needed comfort at all; the worst of the lot essentially abandoned their child that day, even if it only took formal effect at seventeen.

And now came the opportunity he hadn't even known he'd been waiting for: Marius Aquila Black. Grandson of the man who had made Hamilton's schooldays hell, with his aristocratic sneer and refusal to discipline any of the pure-blooded bullies who'd spat on him and hexed him and beaten him to a pulp.

Now _he_ was the Headmaster and the Black would be cowering before _him_, soon enough, snivelling for the parents who no longer gave a damn about him.

Hamilton had restrained himself from summoning Black to his office immediately upon arrival. After all, if the boy was anywhere near as arrogant as the rest of his clan, he'd make his own way here soon enough, for insulting an instructor or fighting with his dorm-mates or refusing to do his assigned chores.

They were all the same, at the beginning; unable to comprehend that they were no longer the wizarding world's elite, but rather its scum, they tried to assert the same unearned privileges they were accustomed to at home. The weak ones learnt quickly just how little the Headmaster cared for that, and were soon cringing shells of their former selves. The stubborn ones, now they took longer to break to his will, putting up a fight over every new perceived slight, drawing the battle out over months before finally succumbing. He hoped this Black was stubborn.

"I don't care what you say, it is unacceptable!" shouted a shrill, boyish voice from the outer office. Ah. That had taken even less time than he'd anticipated.

He threw open his office door. "Is there a problem?" he asked, keeping his tone bland.

"Yes, 'eadmaster. The new boy 'ere, Black, 'e doan wan' to share a room with the other boys 'is age. Somethin' about the dignity of 'is family?" Griggs, the school's caretaker and all-around handyman, grinned ferally at this last bit. He knew Hamilton too well.

Black, however, was oblivious. "I am a Black. I refuse to share a room with a blood-traitor!"

That'd be the Prewett boy. Shame about that one; he was a shy young man who gave Hamilton no trouble at all, but his parents, who were both in wizarding diplomacy and frequently abroad, had paid to send him here, same as all the rest. Naïve trust didn't rankle him like baseless pride, but it was still a weakness, and therefore to be exploited.

"What's this then, Griggs?" Hamilton asked, ignoring the boy; that always infuriated them, spoiled little princes they were. "A Squib refuses to share a room with a blood-traitor?"

"Doan make much sense to me neither, 'eadmaster, but that's what 'e says."

"Well, I say they're both Squibs, and they'll learn to share."

Black stuck his chin out belligerently. "You're a Mudblood! I heard my grandmama say so. I don't have to do anything you say!"

Hamilton feigned shock at this. "Did you hear that, Griggs? He called me a Mudblood! He doesn't have to do anything I say, because my ancestors weren't fancy, stuck-up pure-bloods like his! What do you think of that?"

"I think there's somethin' wrong with the boy's ears, 'eadmaster."

"Yes, Black must have something of a selective hearing problem." Time to drop the pretense; Hamilton rounded on the boy, looking him right in the eyes. "Or didn't you hear your grandmama call you Squib? Didn't she say you were being sent away to a school for failures just like you?"

The barb had stung; Hamilton could see it in his eyes, but the boy spluttered back, "I'm not a failure! She says I'm her favourite!"

"Oh does she, then." Hamilton replied in falsely sweet tones. "Shall I just Floo her and ask?" The boy's protests died. "Now, I may be Muggle-born, but it seems to me that in addition to being Headmaster, I'm the one with the wand here, so you'd best listen to me, Squib. You will share a room with the other boys your age. You will attend classes in remedial magic, on the small chance you are not completely useless, and in Muggle life skills, for when you are discharged from this school."

"I'm not learning any Muggle rubbish!" the boy spat.

"Then you'll starve to death when you turn seventeen and your family turns you out on the street, Black," Hamilton calmly replied.

"My family- Mother- she would never-"

"Oh, but she would, and she will. And if she's too weak to do it herself, your father will, won't he?" The boy blanched. "I see I've touched a nerve. Now, in addition to coursework, you will do your own chores."

Incredulity momentarily replaced dejection. "Surely you have house-elves?"

"House-elves work for _wizards_, Black, and as it seems I must remind you again, _you_ are a _Squib_. You make your own bed, you do your own laundry, and you take your turns in the kitchen and doing whatever else Griggs here needs help with, or those things don't get done."

"I'll, I'll owl Mother about this, you can't get away with treating a Black this way-" The boy was ready to cry. Time to break him and then get him out of the office, whinging brat.

"Oh, and where are you going to find this owl, boy? _I_ write your parents once a month, detailing your progress, and I have no doubt that after the first few months they'll throw the letter away unopened. Out of sight, out of mind, Black, and that's exactly what you are – they've forgotten about you already."

Now the boy really was in tears. "Take him to his room, Griggs," Hamilton commanded, turning to re-enter his office.

"Yes, 'eadmaster."

The boy must have recovered himself a little, for he spoke. "I may be a Squib, but I'm still a Black!"

Hamilton turned to regard him over his left shoulder. "Are you? I suspect they disowned you the second you Portkeyed away."

The boy's sob was the last thing he heard as he closed the office door behind him. This one was going to be exceedingly pleasant to break; he could already tell.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lalage Playfair confronts depravity, and discovers that idealism does not always triumph.

What would her Da say? That this was what came of wanting to help people, she supposed. Andraimon Playfair may have given her his surname, but Lalage was the one who insisted on living up to it. Not that Da was a spiteful man; far from it. But he was a traditionalist; he believed in helping those close to him, and letting the rest of the world take care of itself.

Tutoring other students at Hogwarts had given Lalage an interest in teaching; she had discovered a simple joy in helping someone else understand what they hadn't before, in expressing the theory behind a spell or the movement of a wand in just the right way to make their eyes light up with comprehension.

Unfortunately, in wizarding Britain teaching positions were rather hard to come by. Openings at Hogwarts, the only formal wizarding school, were rare, and one needed top-notch N.E.W.T.s, and not just in one's core subject, to be eligible. Lalage was no slouch, but she didn't fancy her chances there.

She had just been preparing to look for a position as a live-in tutor for a pure-blood family when she'd seen the ad in the Daily Prophet. A school for Squibs was looking for an instructor in remedial Charms and Potions. Lalage had never met a Squib, and she hadn't known they had their own schools. She wondered how one went about teaching magic to non-magical people. But she had N.E.W.T.s in both Charms and Potions, and a position was a position, so she'd owled the Headmaster, a wizard named Hamilton Tattersall, to inquire.

In retrospect, of course, she realised her interview was a bit dodgy, to say the least. It was hard to believe how naïve she'd been just months before, to have been impressed by Tattersall's large, modern office and professional demeanour. Now that she knew just how twisted the man was…. She shuddered.

But at the time he had spoken calmly and pleasantly to her in his office of the difficulties Squibs faced in integrating themselves into either wizarding or Muggle society. He had sounded impassioned when he spoke of the possibilities of practical education in navigating the Muggle world, regretful when he spoke of the slim hope the lessons in Charms and Potions she would be teaching actually had of being effective. "The parents," he'd said vaguely. "They expect that sort of thing."

He'd offered her the job right there, which her Da could've told her was a bad sign. But Lalage needed the work, and even if her lessons would apparently be an exercise in futility, she couldn't help but imagine the difference she could make in these poor children's lives. She envisioned herself comparing basic household Potions and Muggle cleaning products. She dreamed of finding that one student with a glimmer of magical ability that no one else had detected.

In other words, Da would've said, she was brim-full of silly, romantic notions, which hadn't lasted a day in the classroom.

Not that the children had been disruptive – far from it. They had been, if anything, far too indifferent, far too dull. They were completely lacking the spark of curiosity and mischief which children ought to have. It was downright eerie, and soon Lalage couldn't help but notice that outside of Tattersall's office the school was a grim and cheerless place, bereft of anything homely. (And why hadn't she toured the school as part of her interview? Why hadn't she insisted on it?)

From there it was only a small step to the realisation that the children weren't merely bored and unresponsive in class; but rather, that they refused to meet her eyes when she tried to smile at them encouragingly, that they flinched away from Tattersall's assistant, Griggs, as they passed him in the corridors, that they avoided speaking the Headmaster's name at all costs.

And that led - inevitably, she supposed – to her sacking. To the school's locked cellar, and to Marius Black.

* * *

The cellar wasn't the first time she met Marius, of course. He'd been in her class, for the first couple of weeks. She had to admit that at first, it had seemed odd, having a descendant of the stern and dour Hogwarts Headmaster of her first years at the school in her class, knowing that proud family had produced a Squib. But Black was hardly the only well-known surname amongst her students, and before long the boy stood out only as a sullen presence at the back of the classroom, still bizarrely clinging to a tattered pride in his wizarding heritage, and at least that was something. It was better than the dull, empty gaze of the other children – Marius was at least resentful, and if she'd never thought she'd be happy to have a resentful pupil, well, she'd never imagined –

She'd never imagined a lot of the things that went on at that school.

Oh, why hadn't she suspected something when the boy had disappeared from her class? One day he was there, refusing – as usual – to participate in class, muttering under his breath about "Muggle rubbish." So she had –as usual – sent him to the Headmaster's office. And he never returned.

That was the worst part: the guilt. If she hadn't kept sending him to the Headmaster's office, would he have lasted longer? Her only defence was ignorance: _she hadn't known…_

Of course, all the older students left classes, eventually; the children, when questioned, made that clear enough. When she asked Tattersall about it, he'd shown her articles and studies, all to the effect that no one had ever shown signs of developing magic after the onset of puberty.

"So you see, Miss Playfair," he'd said, sounding so reasonable, so calm, "there's no reason to keep them in a class such as yours after they've exhibited, how shall I put this, _certain signs_." He had coughed discreetly as Lalage blushed. "So we simply move them on to the next stage."

"Next stage of what?"

He'd leaned towards her across his desk. "I don't like to speak too much about this, as it wouldn't do to get hopes up, but the school does run, well, an _experimental_ treatment program. Innovative new charms and potions, research, all that sort of thing. If there's a cure for Squibhood, we're determined to find it. And so the older children - with their parents' permission, of course – are our test subjects."

And to think that, at the time, she'd been rather proud to be part of such a cutting-edge institution, trying to make things better for the outcasts of the wizarding world. Now she just felt sick.

It was only after Marius had been gone from her class for a month or so that she had become suspicious enough about the whole school to start, well, nosing around. Questioning Tattersall, she'd quickly found, was not only useless but counterproductive; it was only his pre-existing (and not entirely ungrounded) assumption that she was an oblivious little chit that kept him from sacking her at the first sign of curiosity. Instead, he found a dozen ways to put her off, until she gave up on that avenue.

Speaking to Griggs had been only marginally more useful; he didn't trust her any more than did Tattersall, and moreover didn't seem to presume she was a naïve idiot. But though he was wary of her, he was also nowhere near as good at suave misdirection as the Headmaster, so she'd managed to learn a few things from him – hints, really – before he'd clam up.

He'd mentioned the cellar, for one, and when Lalage realised that she'd never been down there, hadn't even known the building had a lower level and, in point of fact, had never seen any sort of door or stairwell that could lead to one, she'd decided that would be where she started.

She'd found the entrance by following Griggs; while the magic that concealed it was more than adequate to fool the magic-less students, it had only taken Lalage an hour or so, once she had snuck back into the school after curfew, to break the repelling charms and undo the curses.

As soon as she had the door open, she had heard screaming.

She had assumed that this late at night the school would be deserted, and had only intended to do a little investigation - tiptoe through the corridors and poke around a bit. Of course, she still had those lamentable Good Samaritan instincts to deal with, so as soon as she heard the cries of what was clearly another human being in excruciating pain, that plan went out the window. Lalage rushed down the stairs, heedless of any danger that might await her.

Whatever she had expected to find at the bottom of those stairs, it was not Griggs pinning a gibbering, shrieking Marius Black down while Tattersall held his wand on him.

"What are you doing, you madmen?" Lalage cried.

Griggs, who had been concentrating on keeping Marius down, looked up at the sound of her intrusion and growled; Tattersall also spun around to glare at her, removing his wand from Marius in the process; with the wand off him, Marius ceased his cries of pain, though he continued to gibber, giving no sign that he recognised her or had in fact noticed the intrusion.

"I tol' you, din't I, 'eadmaster, that new girl were too curious by 'alf?" Griggs spat, dropping Marius's arms and striding towards Lalage, who shrank back, suddenly aware that bursting in on the two men and Marius had been foolhardy in the extreme.

Tattersall, on the other hand, though he was not so dapper and polished as usual, appeared to be making every effort to take Lalage's presence in a stride.

"Well then, Griggs," he replied calmly, with an undercurrent of malice, "perhaps we should satisfy that curiosity?"

Griggs looked like he was going to object to that plan, but Tattersall quieted him with a look.

"Welcome, Miss Playfair," he continued, "to our testing laboratory. This is where we experiment with new techniques for 'curing' Squibs, and Black here is our lucky newest subject. We were just trying out our latest treatment. Perhaps you'd like a full demonstration?"

Lalage backed away further, shaking her head, mute with dread, but she didn't leave. _I have to know what they're doing,_ she reasoned. _I have to know._

"A little squeamish?" Tattersall asked. "Don't worry. It may look cruel, but if the treatment succeeds, think of the incomparable benefits to young Black. And if it fails, well, he's only a Squib, right?" The Headmaster cackled, a maniacal gleam in his eye. "That's even worse than a Mudblood like me. Isn't it, Black?" He kicked the boy, who had once again been pinned to the ground by Griggs, and was now shaking uncontrollably.

"_Toujours Pur_," he muttered, over and over again in a sort of chant. "_Toujours Pur ToujursPur toujourspur toujourspurtoujourspurtoujourspur…_"

Tattersall ignored Marius's mad babbling. "You see, Miss Playfair," he said dispassionately, reminding her of her old Potions master lecturing, "we are attempting to infuse this Squib's nervous system with magic. Artificially graft magic onto his pathetically Muggle body, in other words. Black here has already consumed a special potion of my own devising that constitutes the first stage of the process."

"What … what's in it?" she asked, trying to sound defiant. Merlin, were they poisoning the students? She had to find out all she could, for when she reported this depravity to the Ministry.

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that," he replied. "I'm afraid the exact recipe's a secret. Dragon heartstring, unicorn hair, phoenix feathers, for a start."

"Wand cores?"

"Not as dumb as you look, eh, Miss Playfair?" Tattersall chuckled. "Powerfully magic, all of them, which is why they suit both purposes. Back to Black, though; we wouldn't want to keep him waiting, would we?" He continued with his lecture. "Now, when that first step has been achieved, and the subject has the very essence of magic coursing through his bloodstream, I apply the second stage; a certain … stimulus, if you will, to make his nerves more open to that magic."

Lalage was very afraid she knew what would happen next. She watched, feeling helpless, as the man spun on his heel, levelled his wand at Marius, and shouted, "_Crucio!_" The boy began once again to shriek, writhing in Griggs's grip.

Lalage found her voice once more. "No!" she shouted. "Stop it! You, you can't! You're torturing him!"

Tattersall once again removed his wand from Marius, who went rigid, then collapsed into a heaving pile on the floor. "I'm afraid that's where you're wrong, Miss Playfair," he replied. "It's not torture, it's _treatment_."

She stared at him, flabbergasted. "You're depraved," she said flatly. "When I tell the Ministry about what goes on at this school, they'll throw you straight in Azkaban. And I hope you get the Kiss," she added.

For a moment the Headmaster just stared at her; then he began to laugh – not the forced cackle or chuckle of earlier, but a deep belly laugh that was if anything even more sinister. Griggs soon joined in with his own wheezing hoot.

"When … you … tell … the … Ministry," Tattersall finally gasped. "My dear Miss Playfair, this entire course of treatment is Ministry-approved! The students' parents – such influential people – lobbied for it, and Squibs are only partially under the Ministry's purview, in any case, so they were only too happy to lend me their stamp of approval."

Now it was Lalage's turn to stare, aghast. She wanted to believe that that couldn't possibly be true, but even she, trusting as she was, had heard of the Ministry's legendary blindness, prejudice and mismanagement.

"Now, Miss Playfair, I am afraid I must inform you that your services at this school are no longer required. I'll have Griggs show you out."

As she was hustled out by a stony-faced Griggs, Lalage turned one last time to stare at Marius Black, huddled on the floor, now muttering "Most Ancient … Most Noble …" as if his pure-blood family's arrogant slogans were a talisman against pain and bewilderment.

* * *

She had cried all the way home that night, and well into the next day. Then she had briefly thought of mounting a rescue, storming the Ministry, telling the _Prophet_ \- anything to get that last glimpse of Marius out of her mind.

But no one at the _Prophet_ was much interested in Squibs, and the Ministry was the dead end Tattersall had sneeringly predicted it would be, and the sad knowledge that Marius's family _wanted_ him in that horrible place and certainly wouldn't thank a silly half-blood idealist for rescuing him, likely wouldn't take him back in the disturbed state he now seemed to be in, prevented her from attempting that desperate option.

Besides, she couldn't rescue them all, could she? For the rest of her life, or at least for the rest of Tattersall's life, she'd have to live with the knowledge that somewhere, innocent children were being tortured in the name of progress, all because of an accident of birth.

Lalage stood amongst the ruins of her youthful idealism, trying to decide whether to turn to drink or Floo her Da.


End file.
